BRECK: SIMULATION #36.4
“They are always working on the roads around here,” the server with the green shirt says. “You said somebody else already gave you directions.”
Sam repeats the directions, beginning from where we are.
“Hmmm. That doesn’t sound right from here. Maybe you miscounted.”
“No,” Sam quickly responds.
“Did he say streets or alleys?”
“What is the difference?” I ask.
“Cars go on streets. Only people can go into alleys.”
“He said streets,” Sam says.
“Did you count the alleys?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there you go. But the good news is that you are not far away. Maybe ten minutes.”
Sam stands.
“No drink then?”
“Not if progress is possible. What are the directions from here?”
“You need to go three streets that way.” He points. “Then, turn on an alley immediately after the produce stand.”
“There is a produce stand on almost every block,” I say.
“This one has a purple sign. And again, it is exactly three streets down. After that, turn right at the next alley, then left on the fourth street. Then two immediate lefts on alleys, until your first street. Follow this for three streets. You will see it on your right.”
“What does it look like?” Sam asks.
“A tunnel, of course!”
I stand as Sam begins marching down the street. I catch up to him and we review the instructions, confirming that we both heard the same thing.
“It is interesting that only the people in green talk.”
“Yes, it is,” Sam answers.
“I wonder why.”
Sam doesn’t respond.
“Do you know why?” I ask.
“No.”
He looks forward, not toward me. He is focused on our path.
“But have you wondered why that is? I think that is what I am asking.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it is the way it is.” Sam still does not look in my direction.
“But what if this is part of what we need to solve?”
“It is already solved. People in red don’t talk. People in green do, and they have already given us directions to the tunnel. What more is needed?”
“I don’t know!” I answer. Several red shirts glance at me then quickly turn away. “Think about the room we were locked in. The answer was there the whole time, but we did not realize it. Because we did not know what to look for.”
There is a sensation growing inside of me. It is a fight. But not between people. Between forces inside of me. It is the experience of wanting something to happen that doesn’t happen. And this sensation makes me want to do something that makes no sense, like raise my voice when Sam is capable of hearing me at a normal volume.
Every time I try to talk with Sam, it strengthens my sensation to speak loudly, so I follow him in silence, watching him count the bending streets and alleys we pass.
With all of the turns, it seems like we are moving in a circle.
After eleven minutes, Sam stops.
“It is not here,” he says.
I would ask if he was precise about following the instructions, but I know what his answer will be. Instead, I wait as he surveys the street.
“It should be there.” He points toward a small furniture store. “But that is not a tunnel.”
He is correct. Again, I wait for him to continue speaking.
“Where is another person in a green shirt?” he asks.
“That has not worked twice,” I respond.
“Maybe it will work next time.”
A thought occurs, and I do not know from where or why.
“Perhaps he was not telling the truth,” I say.
Sam’s eyebrows twitch.
“That is possible.” His attention is now on me.
I consider what this must mean. “If they are lying, then we should do the opposite of what they are telling us to do.”
“What is the opposite of their directions?” Sam asks.
Good question. There are countless possibilities.
“I do not know,” I answer. “Yet.”
LIV: SPRING BREAK 3.4
“I know what you’re thinking,” Mom says, thumping the knuckles of her right hand on the window to the rhythm of a country song.
She’s right. The remainder of the afternoon had been almost as uneventful as the morning. We had four visits with two sales—another stuffed animal and a twenty-five-dollar lawn-dart set.
“I know we didn’t sell much,” she continues, turning down the radio, “but the people who did come loved it. You heard that, right?”
I nod. It’s the only correct answer.
“We just need more people,” she continues.
I had been planning to do some research first, but the timing seems better now.
“Does the store have a social media account?”
“I knew you were going to say that.” The light turns green, which I don’t notice until someone behind us points it out with a blast of their horn. “Yes, but I’m not selling anything online. Some consultant came in and told your grandfather to do that about five years ago. He spent a bunch of money to set up a website. And you know how much he sold? Almost nothing. It’s all about price. That’s it. And we can’t compete with online prices.”
I recall that website. It was terrible, which says something since I recognized this as a twelve-year-old. I have no idea if she should sell online, but it’s a moot point, as that’s not my idea.
“That’s not why I asked. I’m not talking about a website. I have an idea, and social media is only to tell people about it,” I answer.
“Oh. Okay.” She releases one of her hands, which had been in a tense curl around her knee. “Then I’ll give it to you. You should be following it anyways.”
“I’m not really on social media, Mom. Or at least the mainstream ones.”
She frowns. To her, there is a world of 1’s and 0’s, and there is the world in which I am currently driving us home. Everything accessible from a computer is the same. It’s as if she only knew the word ball and doesn’t understand why someone who plays football is not an avid golfer.
“Okay, so what’s your idea?”
I tell her about the Saturn and how many people came over to try it, “which is something you can’t do online.” I have her full attention. “So, we could post to your social media that anyone can come and try to ride it. We’ll set a few up in the parking lot. I could find a few videos online to give it a fun feel.”
She considers the idea. Her knuckles thump once more.
“That’s a good idea, but that’s not what worked today.”
I see where this is headed and already hate it.
“You were riding it in the parking lot today. People saw it—in person—and that’s what made them stop,” Mom continues.
“Lana was riding it,” I correct.
“If she can do it, you can too.”
How is my idea getting ripped away from me so quickly?
“The social media is like advertising, Mom. You believe in commercials, right? It’s like a commercial online. Except it’s free. And it reaches a lot more people.”
She shakes her head. I know that look. I’m talking to a wall.
“Then we’ll do both. You said it yourself. People need to see someone on it. Besides, I think we’d both agree there wasn’t much for you to do in the store today. I have someone who handles the online stuff for me. I’ll send her a note to post it.”
This is not what I had in mind. I’m not the parading show pony selling merchandise. And I’m not even remotely athletic. I have different value to offer.
The problem is, I don’t know what that is. Even if this works, it’s a Band-Aid, not the solution. I don’t know how to help.
She steals a glance away from the road and looks at me with a soft and earnest smile. “I think this is a great plan. Thank you, Liv.”
BRECK: SIMULATION #36.5
We have walked for hours. The town looks both familiar and unfamiliar now. It is a series of newly arranged combinations of the same things.
Daylight lessens.
“Green shirt,” Sam says. He stops abruptly and I bump into his back.
“Where?”
He points toward a nearby corner. It is a woman this time, sitting at the conductor’s chair of a stopped trolley.
“Do you think she will lie?” Sam asks.
“I do not know. But we could try it once more.”
Sam charges across the street, narrowly dodging another passing trolley. By the time I arrive, Sam has already begun the conversation.
“Come on board. I am about to leave. We pass right by the tunnel entrance.”
“How far away is it?” Sam asks.
“Five minutes. There are open seats in the back.”
We pass many rows of red shirts and find an empty bench seat in the back. Once more, it is difficult to track our direction. The trolley turns more often than it heads in any one straight path.
I stare at Sam who stays quiet. It occurs to me that he is brief with his words. Why have I never noticed this before? I remain seated and ponder this and countless other questions. My mind cannot seem to catch up to itself. There is too much happening inside my head. I do not remember ever thinking about thinking, but that’s mostly what I think about now.
I wonder if Sam is experiencing the same. As I’m poised to ask, the trolley driver stops, whistles, and waves us to the front.
There is no tunnel in sight.
“Go straight down that alley right there,” she says, pointing. “It leads to the tunnel.”
Sam enters first. I stay behind him. It is too narrow to walk next to each other. Unlike all other alleys, this one crosses no other paths until we reach the end where the space becomes wider and splinters into six separate alleys, each with its own entrance.
“Which one?” Sam asks.
“I do not think it matters. She was lying,” I say. “We cannot follow their instructions.”
“Then we should explore,” Sam says, and begins walking down one of the six alleys.
I do not disagree with him, but there is something we are missing. Their lies must be telling us something.
“I do not understand why they are lying,” I say.
“It is a trick. They are trying to prevent exploration.”
We continue walking. Sam’s response lingers, twisting in my mind like the path we are on.
“Wait,” I say.
“What?” Sam turns to look at me.
“You are right. It is a trick.”
“Good. Then it is time to keep exploring.”
“No. It is not that kind of trick. They are decoys. The opposite of following their instructions would be passing by them without listening.”
Sam looks at me with a questioning expression.
“We have seen all of them on or near corners. What if those are the entrances to the tunnel? And every time we get near, they are there to turn us away?”
“But there is only one tunnel.”
“Yes, but maybe there is more than one entrance. Everything else here winds and splits in many directions.”
Sam nods in agreement then starts to walk.
“But first, it is time to eat,” I say. “My energy levels are low.”
“There is not much time left to explore today,” Sam answers.
“We are no longer in the room,” I respond. “There may not be an explosion.”
“What happens at ten then?”
“I do not know. Perhaps nothing.”
Sam answers by walking to a nearby café and sitting at an outdoor table.
We order food.
“Do your eyelids feel heavy?” I ask Sam after a long silence.
“No.”
“Mine do,” I say.
“What happens if you close them?”
LIV: SPRING BREAK 3.5
I’m sitting at my computer but haven’t touched the keyboard for an hour.
Breck is learning. Rapidly.
Even when not doing much, his growth is obvious. Breck and Sam sit quietly at the table watching their surroundings, but each of them does this differently. Sam’s process is robotic, like a camera sweeping the area, then returning once more to look for any changes. Breck’s approach seems without method. He lingers on people and objects, studying them, changing expressions as he does, giving clues as to how he’s processing the data.
I realize I’m biased, but there is objective evidence—a tool that measures his processing. It’s like brainwaves meets CPU usage. And Breck is nearly off the charts. It’s a completely different picture than yesterday, or even this morning.
Breck’s eyes droop and after several long blinks, he closes them, then his head drops softly onto the white tablecloth.
Sleep. Yes! I assumed he did this last night, but I hadn’t actually seen it. It’s freaking glorious. I could watch him lie there and do nothing all night.
Sam’s reaction is interesting but still sterile. He pokes Breck with his index finger, and then a spoon, as if a new object might get a different reaction.
Breck doesn’t stir, and Sam’s attention moves on to something else.
I don’t dare tweak Brecks’ code now. He’s working.
This puts me in a strange situation. For the first time in six weeks, I have nothing to do. I’m supposed to hang out with Lana tonight, but she’s still talking with her parents. I have no schoolwork. My Renaissance responsibilities are done for the day. And there’s nothing to watch now other than an activity monitor showing that Breck’s processing is still on fire.
I knew I could win this, but it seemed so out of reach—more aspirational than actual. Not now. Now I feel like I truly have a shot. I can win this internship.
The guy who created Watson, the IBM program that beat the world chess champion, won this contest. One of the Google founders did as well. No one my age has ever won. No girl has ever won.
The doorbell rings. I notice, but don’t pay much attention to it until my bedroom door flies open. I nearly jump out of my chair.
Lana looms in the doorway, as if the word panic was inked across her forehead.
“We’re moving.”
It’s too direct for me to fully grasp.
“I don’t get it.”
“We are moving . . . to another house,” she says, slowly pronouncing these words, each one further shattering our constant in life as neighbors. “In Massachusetts.”
I don’t know what to say. My mouth opens, but no words escape.
“Say something,” she says.
“This isn’t happening!”
“It is.” She closes my door and collapses on my bed.
“Why?”
“My dad’s research project lost funding, so his job is going away with it. He got hired at Amherst, in middle-of-nowhere Massachusetts.”
“When?” I ask, as she inches inward toward the middle of my bed, then buries herself under a large fold of comforter. I want to do the same.
“End of the semester,” she answers from beneath the cover.
“That’s only two months from now.”
“Thanks for double checking the math. That was what I got also,” she grumbles. “And yeah, that means we won’t be seniors together, in case that was what you were going to point out next.”
“What does your mom think about it?”
“She says she can get a job teaching second grade anywhere and she has some bizarre fascination with New England.”
I roll my chair to the foot of the bed. This isn’t happening. We can change this. Think. Problem, solution.
I draw in a deep, centering breath as Lana softly sobs. A few twizzled strands of her hair escape into view, bobbing against the snowy white comforter.
“What can we do about it?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“He already took the new job?”
“No. They’re finalizing things. It’ll be official next week.”
“So, it’s not done yet,” I say.
“It’s done. Unless he finds funding for something else, but he doesn’t want to study something else. So, there you go. Done.”
“What exactly does he study?”
“Something about child development.”
“That explains a lot.”
“Do I seem like someone who’s in the mood for shitty side commentaries?”
I don’t answer. She’s right. It was a botched attempt at humor. But also, I’m momentarily distracted by motion on my computer monitor.
Sam stands. He walks around the table so he is next to Breck, then pokes him a few more times with his finger. Breck still doesn’t respond. Sam then abruptly turns and marches down the street.
What?
Sam is programmed to stay with Breck. This is not supposed to happen.
FROM: JESSICA ANDERS
TO: DoRC LEADERSHIP TEAM
SUBJECT: Re: Interesting Programming Adjustment (XNR908)
I am writing with an additional update: XNR908 is being stranded. While this could impede progress, I suspect it will not. Having watched this character closely, I believe this may actually accelerate growth even more.
This raises a question we have not yet had to face. What if this character makes it through all of the challenges? I know there are some concerns about allowing this to happen, but there are steps we can take if it progresses too far.
Let’s discuss this live.
More updates to come.
~ J
LIV: SPRING BREAK 3.6
“Hello?” Lana says, peeking her face out from under the covers.
Her words lay on my periphery as I think through what Sam’s departure means. I never considered that he would leave.
“Are you looking at me, or your freaking computer?” Lana asks, turning to glance at the screen herself.
“Sam just left,” I say.
“Ask me if I freaking care!” Her tiny body explodes out from under the heap of bedding. “I told you that I’m moving. I’m bawling on your bed. And you’re hanging out here, dry-eyed, watching ones and zeros sleep!”
She’s right, I know she’s right, but— “There’s just a lot happening right now.”
“Yeah. An avatar walked away from a table and your best friend is leaving for good. I get how that’s dividing your attention.”
On instinct, I glance between Lana and the monitor.
“You can’t even freaking stop,” she belts, leaping up from the bed. “Do you even care about me moving?”
“Yes. Of course!”
“Well you’re not acting like it.”
“I was trying figure out what we could do about it.”
“Until you got distracted.”
My undivided attention is on her, but she’s now looking away from me, staring into one of the corners of the room.
“Lana,” I start to say.
“The whole world is raking me over today,” she confides to the empty wall.
“It’s a problem. Problems have solutions. We just have to find it,” I say, but even as the words come out, I’m not sure I believe them.
“Not this one.”
“I’m trying my best. I don’t know what to do.”
“Then that makes two of us,” she says.
We sit in silence.
“I don’t want to lose you,” I try to place a hand on her shoulder, but she moves away.
“Well, it’s happening. What do you want me to say? I’m just a high school kid whose dad has a better job across the country.”
Recoiled, she’s on the bed with her legs crisscrossed and her arms folded. She seems empty, defeated in a way I’ve never seen her.
This isn’t who she is. I’m the pragmatist; she’s the dreamer. This is the core of every debate we’ve ever had. I think we control our own destiny, but only loosely. We try our best, but life is impossibly complex, with too many butterflies to count. Lana believes in willpower alone. She is a tempest of determination, flapping pages of The Secret into the winds of the universe. Envision the outcome you want and you will have it.
I’m staring at her now, wishing for her irrational optimism.
“There has to be something we can try,” I offer.
“Were you able to talk your mom out of Renaissance?”
Again, more silence. I can’t dispute this. Maybe she’s right.
“This could be the end of us,” Lana says.
I don’t want to have this conversation right now.
“Stop.”
“Then tell me why it isn’t. I mean, it was going to happen eventually, like a year from now, after we graduate. I just thought we had more time. We don’t. It’s the end.”
“Lana, it’s not the end. And it was never going to be the end.”
“Where are you going to go to college then?” she asks. “Because I’m thinking somewhere small, liberal arts, with a focus on writing and literature. Any interest?” Lana asks, heavy on sarcasm.
I don’t answer because she knows the answer. We both do, even if neither one of us can name exactly where we’ll go.
And, on the heels of what I heard today, whatever college I might want to attend suddenly looks a little more pipedream.
“Exactly,” Lana says.
“We don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t even know how I’m going to afford college. I haven’t told you about what I heard at the store today.” I fill her in on the conversation I overheard in Mom’s office.
“Holy crap. I’m sorry. I guess the world is raking both of us over today,” she says.
“Yeah, so like I said, affording a college I want to go to is a pretty big question mark right now. Maybe I’ll find you, crash on your floor, and audit classes wherever you are.”
“You’re scholarships all the way.”
“Based on what? That?” I say, pointing to the tiny trophy on the wall.
“You have a decent chance of winning this thing. I checked out the boards earlier. There aren’t that many people who have gotten out of the room. And nobody’s mentioned anything beyond the city.”
I briefly drift back into the headspace I was in before Lana blasted in here.
“Yeah, that would be a game changer,” I say.
“You could go anywhere you want. Free,” she adds. I wishfully nod and she continues. “Okay, ideal college. Let’s say you win this, money doesn’t matter, and you can go wherever you want. Where?”
“Stanford. You?”
“Williams,” Lana says.
“Isn’t that in Massachusetts?” I ask.
“Yes, but it’s a different middle of nowhere. And I didn’t want to go there until after freaking senior year. And, with that, we’re back to square one. You’re in California and I’m on the other coast. My point is that this is the end. It’s never going to be like this again.”
“We don’t know—”
“No. We do. It’s never going to be the same. I’m never going to open my window and have you there. And I won’t even be able to walk next door to see you. I won’t even be able to drive there. It’s the beginning of the end. And I was okay with that when it didn’t seem so . . . now.”
We stare at each other in silence. There’s not much more to add to that depressing thought.
“So, what do you want to do tonight?” I eventually ask.
“Read. I want to forget about all of this for a bit. It’ll give you more time to work on that anyway,” she says, nodding in the direction of the computer.
“There’s not much to do. I guess I need to figure out why Sam left, but I don’t want to mess with Breck. I might only screw him up.”
“Yeah, he’s coming along. I’m telling you . . . you’ve got a shot.” Lana stands and makes her way to the bedroom door. “I’m going to go. Keep your phone on, okay?”
She leaves my bedroom. Seconds later I hear the front door shut.
I stare out of the window, but her curtains stay closed.
My phone rings. It’s Lana.
“Breck is the answer!”
“And what’s the question?” I ask, squinting at the phone to see the time. It’s 3 a.m. I kept my ringer on but hadn’t expected a call at this hour.
“How we keep my dad here,” she says, bursting with enthusiasm.
“I’m not tracking.”
“The psychology of AI. Google it. It’s new and it’s exploding. Everybody wants to study it, there’s crazy money out there to fund it, and you heard my dad react to what you said about the contest. He thought it was interesting,” she says, quick-worded as though her tongue can’t keep pace with her thoughts. “And it’s related to child development.”
“How?” I ask, which is only the first in a long list of questions. My fingers crawl to the base of the bedside lamp then slide upward to flip it on.
“Kids learn. That’s what they do. They develop into adults. That’s what Breck is doing. He’s learning . . . developing into something more.”
“Okay.” I prop myself up and lean against my pillow. “But Breck is a program and that’s all he’ll be. There’s no psychology. He’s code. He does what he’s programmed to do.”
“But he learns,” Lana presses.
“So does a dog.”
“Well,” she starts, her voice full of annoyance, “a lot of people smarter than me think it’s worth studying—and maybe my dad might also—and that’s what matters. Plus, Rice has courses on AI. Not AI psych, but maybe they could be talked into it.”
This is who I was searching for hours earlier. My hope-ridden friend, unbound by reason.
This plan isn’t half-baked—it’s not baked at all. I don’t even fully understand it.
“It’s a long shot,” Lana continues. “I get it. But, it’s the best I can come up with other than handcuffing myself to the sink or moving into your TV room. You’re the one who was all about trying something. So, this is all I’ve got.”
She awaits my reaction.
Lana is my one and only amazing friend. What do I have to lose? She’s already leaving. And, who knows? It could work. Less likely things happen every day, everywhere.
“If you put it that way,” I say.
“Which is the right way,” she fires back.
“Then I’m in. What can I do?”
“Yeah, so I’ve been thinking about this. Can we talk with Breck?”
“Like with a chat box?”
“No, talk. Like he does with Sam.”
“There’s not an app for that.”
“But you could write one, right?”
“Umm.” My mind races. “Maybe. Probably. I could tweak something else that’s out there. But—”
“But what?”
“We’re not allowed to help him,” I say.
“You programmed him. You’ve climbed inside his brain! You can talk to him.”
“What I mean is that he has to figure out all of the challenges by himself. That’s the point of the contest. We can’t help him do anything.”
“We wouldn’t be helping. We’d only be asking questions.”
As a budding computer scientist, I’m intrigued. But as a contest participant, I’m nervous. I don’t want to screw this up. If I win, it will change the course of my life. Stakes don’t get much bigger than that.
I’ve pulled myself out of bed and I stare at my reflection in the blank monitor. I do wonder what it would be like to be in there, to be in Breck’s world. Like in my dream. What must it be like? Asking Breck would let us know.
“I need to read the rules again,” I answer.
“I did. There’s nothing in the rules about talking with him.”
“Maybe not explicitly.”
“I’m explicitly on the verge of living in Massachusetts.”
“Okay,” I concede. “But we need to be—”
“Careful,” she cuts me off. “Got it. I don’t want to screw this up for you either. Let’s try it with the two of us tomorrow morning before I bring my dad into it.”
“It’s three AM. I still need to program it and I’m working at the store tomorrow.”
“Can’t you get out of it? This is kind of a special situation.”
“No. First it’s my mom. Any special situation that involves my computer is not a special situation. And second, I already told her about the Saturn idea in the parking lot. It’s happening. She posted it to the store’s social media. And she’s expecting that I’m going to be the one riding around on it.”
“You?”
“That was my reaction.”
“Then we’ll call from the store,” Lana says.
“I still need to program it.”
“Did I mention Massachusetts?”
I stop my protests. At this point, I’m only wasting time.